


So Many Topics Left To Touch

by asexual-fandom-queen (writeordietrying)



Category: John Mulaney & The Sack Lunch Bunch, US Comedians RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Show Is Really A Show, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Mr. Music, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Swearing, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:40:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21962227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeordietrying/pseuds/asexual-fandom-queen
Summary: Set in a world whereJohn Mulaney & The Sack Lunch Bunchis a real TV show, and John Mulaney and Jake Gyllenhaal are still John Mulaney and Jake Gyllenhaal, but notthe realJohn Mulaney and Jake Gyllenhaal.In which Jake is off his meds, and John has a lot of feeling (about psychiatry, and the direction of his show, but mostly about Jake.)Because two minutes at the end ofJohn Mulaney & The Sack Lunch Bunchgot me more invested in the Mr. Music/Jake Gyllenhaal character/caricature than some shows have managed to do for some characters in five or six seasons.
Relationships: John Mulaney/Jake Gyllenhaal, John Mulaney/Mr. Music
Comments: 17
Kudos: 53





	So Many Topics Left To Touch

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure why I did this. I could have written literally anything else. I had to start prepping for Boxing Day family dinner like two hours ago. But I watched _John Mulaney & The Sack Lunch_ Bunch this morning and had all these _feelings_ about Mr. Music, and that five-second interaction between John and Mr. Music that feels highly coded to be about not judging people who experience mania and/or psychosis, and suddenly here I am. 
> 
> While I am not bipolar myself, I have my own history with mental health, and have experienced episodes of high, high moods similar enough that bipolar was a diagnosis that was considered for a while, so I'm basing a lot of things here off my own experiences. 
> 
> Title is taken from the "Music, Music Everywhere!" song at the end of the special. 
> 
> If you for some reason are also into this, leave me a kudos and a comment. Let me know I'm not alone! And have a Merry Christmas/Happy Holiday Season!

John hesitates with his knuckles poised an inch above the smooth, cherry-red surface of the dressing room door. The soft sound of shuffling and gratuitous vulgarity bleeds through the thin particle board, and he sighs, unfurling his fingers to scratch at the creases that have developed in his brow. 

“Jake,” John announces with three quick, staccato taps. “It’s John. I’m coming in, okay?” 

John waits for a second, in case Jake wants to protest, but when he gets no response, he turns the handle and swings open the door. 

Jake’s dressing room is little more than a hole in the wall, something that might once have been a janitorial closet before the studio snapped up the property to film _The Sack Lunch Bunch_ and realized they needed more star rooms than were already available. It’s an understated kind of chaos inside, scripts with highlighted lines plied haphazardly across the undersized vanity pushed against the right wall, a metal rod of half-empty hangers to the back, a rumpled pile of clothes balled up on the armchair to the room’s left. The speckled laminate floors scuffed black with shoe marks and concrete masonry walls painted khaki beige do as much to make the room drab as the dull, yellow incandescent light dangling from the ceiling overhead. 

Jake, seated at the vanity in a rickety folding chair, doesn’t look up when John slides through the narrow gap he makes in the door frame, the loose fabric of his sweater catching and tugging on the curved edge of the brassy-gold strike plate, or when he closes it shut again with a small, sharp _click_. He stays with his head in his hands, tugging at the long, disheveled strands where the styling gel’s let go, leaving it limp and unpleasantly shiny. 

John stands with his back pressed to the door, handle digging against his spine, the nip of pain just enough to keep him grounded. 

“I fucked everything up, didn’t I?” Jake asks, forcing the heels of his hands against his eyes and scrubbing hard enough that John nearly steps forward to stop him. 

John shrugs, not that Jake can see. “They’ll cut something together in editing,” he replies. “You’re fine.” 

Jake laughs, bitter and humorless. “This seems fine to you?” 

John’s feet finally unglue from the floor. He moves to perch on the edge of the vanity, long, spindly legs stretching out in his jeans and crossing at the ankles. The table shifts on its hinges, but ultimately bears his weight. He dips his head, hoping to make eye contact, but Jake keeps his bowed. His whole body jostles as his legs bounce rapidly up and down, an ocean of chaos to John’s calm waters. 

“How much sleep _did_ you get last night?” John asks.

Jake’s grip on the hair at the front of his scalp looks ironclad, knuckles almost white with it, as he shakes his head vigorously enough that John feels the pang of sympathy pain at his own hairline. “I thought everything was gonna be so perfect. I had all these ideas, all these sounds rattling around in my head. And then once I started thinking about Mr. Music, all I could think about was the costume, and how it wasn’t good enough, and if I just tried enough stuff on I could find the piece that would blow the whole thing wide open. And then my wheels just started spinning, man. I don’t know.”

Hunched over with his head in his hands, Jake looks small, even though he’s broader than John, and nearly as tall. John uncrosses his ankles and nudges Jake’s jackrabbiting shin with his own. Jake stills abruptly, finally looks up. 

“How many hours?” John asks again. 

Jake sighs. “I think Friday was the last time,” he admits, fingers scratching anxiously at the back of his neck. 

“Jake,” John says with a harsh exhale, like the confession’s knocked the wind out of him. He tries to land somewhere in the realm of concern with his tone, and not judgmental. He knows it’s the last thing Jake needs. “It’s Tuesday.” 

Jake chews the skin under his thumb. His legs bounce again, and John feels every vibration where they’re still pressed shin to shin. 

“Someone’s gonna fire me,” Jake mutters. 

John laughs, a quick, harsh chuckle. “Doubtful,” he says. “Since they’d have to run it by me first, and you know I wouldn’t stand for that shit at all.” 

“You _should_ fire me,” Jake says, sitting suddenly ramrod straight and fixing John with a hard, frim look that catches him off guard. “ _Sack Lunch_ is your baby and sooner or later, I’m gonna ruin it. I can’t– I don’t think right, when I’m like this. I’m gonna do something fucking stupid and everything you made here’s gonna come crashing down.” 

John takes a surreptitious deep breath and feigns as much levity as he can in his expression as he rolls his eyes and bumps Jake’s leg with the top of his foot. “Don’t be melodramatic.” 

Jake doesn’t flinch. “I’m serious, John,” he says. 

“So am I,” John replies. He locks eyes with Jake, and the other man’s legs still, even though the nervous energy still buzzes under his skin in a way that’s palpable, that electrifies the room. “You are Mr. Music. I don’t wanna write you off, or recast you. I don’t need anybody else. Just you.” 

Jake sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. Eye to eye like this, John can see the dark circles where the foundation’s rubbed away. 

“When’d you stop taking your meds?” 

Jake tenses. “Who said I–” 

“Don’t lie, Jake,” John interrupts, holding up a hand. He rears back as Jake springs from his seat, pacing the six-step line from one end of the room to the other. John doesn’t miss the way hobbles, just barely perceptible under the manic energy driving him forward like business as usual. He leaves a smear of blood behind him, and John sees the purpling of his ankle even from a distance. 

“I’m not gonna ream you out, man,” he promises, straightening from his leaning position to give Jake more space. “So, don’t lie to me.” 

Jake scratches the back of his neck. “About a week.” 

John nods. “Does your doctor know?” 

A flinch. “I can’t tell her,” Jake says. “All she wants to do is keep me drugged up.” 

“She wants to keep you safe,” John counters, the exasperation he’s trying so desperately to keep at bay slipping into his tone. “And functioning. She wants you to be able to come to work and do your job. Or, I don’t know, go home and actually sleep at night.” 

Jake shakes his head. He’s still pacing. John wants to step in front of him, make him stop, but he knows that won’t help. “I fucking hate being on lithium,” he spits.

“Well,” John says, plain and matter-of-fact. “I don’t think you like this very much, either.” 

Jake stills, flicks his eyes up from the floor where he’s been watching himself pace and track blood. 

“Also,” John adds. “I happen to know for a fact that’s absolutely not true. You don’t hate being on lithium, you just think you do when your dose is too low to manage your mania. Then you start feeling _just_ the right combination of paranoid and invincible to stop taking it altogether. That’s when you hate it. When the mental illness is the one in the driver’s seat. But that’s not what you really think.” 

Jake shakes his head. His whole body’s trembling. “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “This is the third time. I can’t tell her I stopped taking it again. Can’t ask her to put me back on if I’m too fucking stupid to stay on.” 

John frowns. “Sure you can,” he says, loud and brassy, with a quick toss of his head. “You make an appointment, and you waltz into her office, and you say _put me back on my medication, please_. You can do that _so_ many times.” 

“She’s gonna be mad at me,” Jake argues. 

“She’s going to caution you,” John says. “Against the health risks of stopping your medication without medical advice. That’s her job as a doctor. But she’s not going to be mad at you. And if she is, then it’s because she’s a shitty psychiatrist. It’s got nothing to do with you.” 

Jake is quiet for a breath, and eerily still. “Are you mad at me?” he asks. 

John sighs. He steps forward and reaches out, clasping Jake by the forearms and holding him still, the canary yellow silk of the Mr. Music costume cool and slippery to the touch under his hands. 

“You’re not just a colleague to me,” John says emphatically, holding Jake’s eyes, even as his break off every so often to dart from place to place to place around the room. “You are my friend. One of the most important people in my life. I am concerned for you. And I am frustrated that I can’t do more to help. So I might seem a little mad. But I am never, ever, mad at you. Do you know that?” 

Jake hesitates a moment, then shakes his head. 

John frowns. “Remember that,” he says, solid and firm, with no room to argue. 

He waits until Jake nods in response, then tugs on his forearms, leading him toward the armchair. John grabs the pile of clothes in one hand and tosses it to the floor under the clothes rack. He corrals Jake into the seat, then crouches in front of him, grabbing his right leg by the shin. 

“You’re walking on it too much for it to be broken,” John muses aloud, looking the purplish skin and the swelling around Jake's ankle. He pinches his fingers around the back of Jake’s Achilles tendon, the pads pressing into the inflammation. He barely sucks in a breath. 

“Does that hurt?” John asks anyway. 

Jake shakes his head. “Who knows,” he says. “Everything feels like it’s up here.” He raises a hand over his head to emphasize his point. 

John lets out a heavy breath through his nose. His shoulders slump. “Please,” he says, tracing gentle circles against Jake’s ankle with his thumb. “Let me take you to the hospital.” 

Jake shakes his head. “The glass,” he says. “They’re gonna think I did it on purpose. What if they put me on a hold?” 

“Then I will be there in seventy-two hours to pick you up,” John promises. 

Jake swallows. “And if the press gets wind?” 

“They can fuck themselves.” 

* * *

“I want Mr. Music to be bipolar.” 

Jake looks at John over his plate of takeout, a fresh spring roll bisected messily in a semi-circular bite held aloft between his chopsticks. They’re sitting on the couch in John’s apartment, the nicer residence of the two. John’s the big household name, he’s got the Manhattan money. 

Jake never made it quite as big. A few appearances on SNL – where they met – a few standup tours. John never understood why. He’s funny, but Jake’s hilarious, unhinged and high energy in a way that feels more engaging than John’s own deadpan, dad next door schtick. When he was looking for regular guest stars for _Sack Lunch Bunch_ , he hadn’t even thought twice. Of course, it was Jake. It was always going to be Jake. 

“Well,” Jake says with a wry, sardonic smile. “Want no more.” 

John rolls his eyes. “I mean on the show,” he says. 

Jake frowns. He sets his half-eaten spring roll back on his plate, then sets the plate on the coffee table. 

“Obviously not without your blessing,” John hastens to add. The couch is expansive, but John’s mostly on the middle cushion, and turned like they are, their knees knock together when he shuffles a half-inch closer. 

“Would the network even let you do that?” Jake asks, scrunching up his face. 

“Well, they’d better,” John says. “I’m the executive producer. Half the financing comes from my money, and yeah, I make that money back and then some, but that doesn't mean people shouldn’t still have to defer to me. Hell, it’s my IP. If they don’t like it, I’ll say _fuck you very much_ and take the show someplace else.” 

Jake scoffs and rolls his eyes. He settles back against the cushion. The way his legs stretch out as he relaxes tangles their shins together, and a shiver runs up the long column of John’s spine. 

“You’re such a drama queen sometimes,” Jake teases. 

John frowns. “Hey,” he says. “I’m serious.” 

Jake swallows. John tracks the movement of his Adam’s apple. “You don’t have to do that just for me.” 

“Except it wouldn’t be just for you,” John says. “There’s something like 2.3 million Americans diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I guarantee you, kids know someone who’s bipolar. Or they know someone who has schizophrenia, or depression, or even a generalized anxiety disorder.” 

John shifts forward again on the sofa. He worries for a second that he’s crowding Jake out when both their knees press flush together, but Jake doesn’t pull back. Instead, he slides his arm across the back of the couch, and though they’re not quite touching, John swears he can feel the warmth of him through the sleeve of his shirt. 

“I created _The Sack Lunch Bunch_ for a reason,” John continues. “Because I saw what was available for kids nowadays and it’s all bullshit. It either teaches them nothing, or it teaches them to be little assholes to each other. There used to be a message to kid’s programming. Be nice, be generous, understand your neighbor. Not make fun of your neighbor for being fat, or stupid, or whatever we’re still deeming acceptable to make fun of people for.

“I wanted _The Sack Lunch Bunch_ to be different,” John says. “And when I signed on to the network, they promised it would be. At first, it was _just get past the first season, John_. Then, _shows struggle in their sophomore year, John; better not rock the boat_. But it’s been three years, and they’re still censoring my content. They cut _Sasha’s Dad Does Drag_ from the show last month without even consulting me.” 

Jake’s fingers brush against the curve of John’s shoulder. The pad of his pointer catches at the collar. John feels it against his skin. It loosens his muscles where they pull taught between his scapulas. 

“I’m just tired,” John says. “I care about this show. I wanna do it in a way that does right by the audience I meant it for. Not One Million Moms, or whatever shitstains are in office, or heading the network, or running the FCC. I swear to God, I’ll make a YouTube channel and upload the whole thing as shaky cell phone footage if I have to.” 

A soft smile tugs at the corner of Jake’s mouth. 

“And yeah,” John adds, sagging against the backrest so his shoulder presses squarely against Jake’s arm. He tilts his head, and Jake’s fingers brush against the corner of his jaw. “I wanna do right by you, too. I wanna give you that platform. That space to be yourself, openly and honestly. If that’s what you want.” 

Jake’s fingers twitch against his skin. “Yeah, okay,” he whispers. “I’m in.” 

* * *

Things are different since taking season four independent. 

For all that John was ready to pay the whole show’s budget out of pocket and suffer the consequences, a surprising amount of money came their way by donation, first from fellow actors, comedians, and general entertainment media types, then through public fundraising campaigns set up by viewers, and finally, politicians, once the consensus was finally in on the general public opinion of _The Sack Lunch Bunch_ ’s solo move. 

The state of Jake’s dressing room, however, is much the same. 

“I feel like if I hit refresh one more time, I might unintentionally complete some kind of Sisyphean ritual and end up stuck on Twitter forever,” John says, staring down at the tablet in his hand. He has a flute of sparkling apple juice in the other, which Jake opts to chug from the bottle. 

The first episode of season four dropped to a handful of contracted streaming services earlier in the day, and John and Jake have been in Jake’s dressing room reading over reviews for the last hour, two more celebratory bottles piled by the trash to go in recycling later.

They just wrapped the day filming their penultimate episode of thirteen, and John’s still buzzing with post-performance adrenaline. The sugar in the juice and the heat of Jake pressed up against his side as he reads over John’s shoulder does nothing to help with his jitters. 

“Just one more time,” Jake urges, and, helpless to say _no_ to him, John hits refresh. “Poignant and emotional,” he reads, breath ghosting across sensitive skin on the side of John’s neck, just over his pulse. “ _John Mulaney & The Sack Lunch Bunch_ tackles mental health awareness with new Mr. Music storyline.” 

“Reviews seem to be half-decent,” John agrees. 

Jake scoffs. More warm air tickles the hair at the nape of John’s neck. “Reviews are great,” he says. Then, softer, “you’re great.”

John takes a step back. He places the tablet and his glass of juice down on the vanity and, sensing the sudden shift in mood, Jake does the same with the bottle. 

“Thank you for doing this with me,” John says, warm and soft and sincere. 

Jake smiles. “I should be thanking you,” he says. “Most people would have kicked me out on my ass day one.” 

“I was never gonna be able to do that, though, was I?” John replies in an atypical moment of honesty. The room is still so small. Too small for a recurring guest star. Too small for two grown men. Too small for all of John’s feelings. 

Jake licks his lips, and John can’t help but track the movement with his eyes. When he snaps them back up, Jake is looking at him like he’s the only thing in the room. “Why not, exactly?” he asks. 

John swallows thick. “Come on, man,” he says. He takes a small, automatic step forward. Jake doesn’t pull away. “You know why.” 

“Do I?” Jake asks. He inches forward, too, like he’s on autopilot. John sees his fingers twitch from the corner of his eye, his hand reaching out, then drawing back, like he’s unsure. But how could he not know? John’s always been so sure. 

He takes a step forward. They’re pressed nearly chest to chest. 

“I am technically your boss,” John whispers. It comes out thick and raspy and raw. “So feel free to knee me in the balls if this is crossing a line but I really just wanna–” 

He doesn’t get the rest of the sentence out. He kisses Jake on an exhale, like John’s breathing everything he has into him, giving Jake everything he is. He curls his fist in Jake’s shirt and tugs him close, and Jake opens under him like he’s in bloom. He slips his tongue into Jake’s mouth and the other man carves out space for him like he belongs there, the same way he hauls John’s body closer with hands on his waist to press them flush from knees to hips to chest. John slides his hand from Jake’s shirt and curls both around the base of his neck to cradle him like he’s precious. 

“John,” Jake pants against his lips. His breath is fire-hot, and it sets the nerve endings on John’s lips alight. “I wanted– for so long. And I didn’t know–” 

“I know,” he replies, pressing another slow, steady kiss to Jake’s mouth. “Me too.”

“Am I still coming over tonight?” Jake wonders. Their noses brush, like they haven’t figured out how to stop moving together yet, even with their lips apart.

Another soft, plush kiss. “Do you still want to?” John asks. 

Jake nods. “If you still want me to.” 

“From the second I met you,” John says, brushing a long strand of hair behind Jake’s ear where it’s fallen loose. “I have always wanted you.” 

_I am always going to want you._

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](https://asexual-fandom-queen.tumblr.com/)


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